


Amatorian

by yuutsuhime



Series: Snowbound [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Belligerent Sexual Tension, Drunken Flirting, Established Relationship, Explicit Consent, F/F, Power Struggle, Robot Sex, Robot/Human Relationships, Semi-Public Sex, Slow Dancing, Strip Tease, Switching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:01:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23489488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuutsuhime/pseuds/yuutsuhime
Summary: The sexual tension between a woman and her service automaton inamorata reaches a breaking point during a night out at a dance club.
Relationships: Ava Delta-509/Ately Dressler
Series: Snowbound [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1718800
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	Amatorian

**Author's Note:**

> This is indulgent OC fic, and you are about to learn way too much about my kinks (but I'm ok with that if you are).

When they take our coats, the smoke and mahogany press up against my skin like a lover, but Ava is already here, inelegantly stomping slush off her boots. The club is called The Monarch — like what you'd find at the top of a deck of cards, although the patrons inside are hardly as regal. It's the sort of place where you collect empty drinks on your table like trophies, applaud for the singer louder than the other booths, laugh louder than your best friend — perhaps it's a club for men and women. Perhaps that makes it any other dance club.

"Remember, alcohol has no effect on me," Ava says. "Besides causing an electrical fault."

"These are mine," I say. I've awkwardly ordered two glasses of French wine, of a brand that even my language studies can't help me pronounce. The bartender used words like _dry_ and _romantic_ after he knew that I wasn't eleven, and I suppose I understood.

"That's quite a volume," Ava chides me.

"Don't mention it. I never really got to be an irresponsible kid. Might as well start tonight?"

Ava rolls her eyes at me and slips into a booth; I follow her, leaving my walking cane along the crease of the bench. Ava continues, in a voice not quite resigned: "I'll hold your hair back while you vomit."

"Fantastically intimate. Pick a glass up," I say. "I want to toast you."

Ava does. "Does the custom lose meaning when both drinks are for yourself?"

"Oh, hush," I say, and then touch the glasses together. "To irresponsibility."

"And while you get drunk, I suppose my job is to sit here and indulge you," Ava says.

"You don't need to be tipsy," I say. "The _atmosphere_ is that we're together, and we're _going_ to sit together in this booth and think about dancing until someone gives in and asks."

"I would like to dance with you, Ately," Ava says.

"Right, _Ava_ , but the _magic_ is in the anticipation," I say, and I finish off the first glass, ignoring Ava's disdain. "I suppose you could anticipate a number of things, if we've decided to be blunt now."

Ava stills for a split second — a tiny expression of hers that's the closest she can get to blushing — and then she leans back and looks away towards the ceiling. It's another sort of magic that her face and skin aren't intended to convey emotion — much less of the romantic kind — and yet, I've come to read her body language so clearly. Perhaps there's a name for this that doesn't resort to the baseness and commonality of 'love'; then again, perhaps everything between us lives in words we create for ourselves and keep from the dictionary.

"You can stare at me," I laugh, and lean onto the table for emphasis.

"You're becoming quite distracting," Ava says.

"Distracting from what?"

"Clarity of thought, I suppose."

I glance at my empty first drink and then turn back to Ava incredulously. "Clarity of thought? I've abandoned that long ago."

"I suppose I need to adjust to this new social paradigm," Ava says. "We are unmistakably in public, and remain bound by manners and politeness. Especially towards the establishment."

Ava's referring to her job — that of a secretary who says _yes, sir_ or _no ma'am_ while she types two-hundred words per minute for ten hours a day. Perhaps Ava would defend this squalid treatment with the intent of her original design — a machine to perform menial tasks — but perhaps that was a conversation best had with preparation.

"Allow yourself to be reckless," I say instead. "There's nothing you can do to hurt me, and anyone else doesn't matter. Perhaps if you're reckless enough you'll find out if I'm wearing anything under this dress?"

"Are you?"

"I don't know," I say. "Maybe you can _anticipate_ finding out."

"You seem to have an agenda."

"Why not?" I say. "Dating is a game of cat and mouse. I can't just put everything on the table because it spoils the fun."

"Then I'll play. How do I get you to put anything 'on the table', in this moment?"

I shrug. "Win it from me," I say, and I take a deck of cards out from my purse and drop it between us.

"You planned this."

"I'm simply prepared for serendipity, Ava," I shrug again. "So here's how this goes. This is poker, but we're betting on secrets and honest answers. We both put one up, and the winner gets them all. Are you in?"

"This seems to be your game, with your rules. Are you trustworthy?"

"I don't know, am I?"

"You're certainly recalcitrant."

"I'm being _guarded_. I can assure you this is mutually beneficial."

Ava shrugs. "I'm in."

"Good. Because if I win, you're going to look _exactly_ where you keep avoiding, regardless of what your manners tell you."

We drop the conversation as Ava shuffles the deck — my hands tremble far too much for that kind of precision. Just another reminder that my body is a loathsome husk of medical problems, but Ava seems to like it just as much. She deals and I draw a two-pair from the start.

"Will you fold?" I ask.

"No. In this scenario it's just forfeiture, which is pointless."

"Unless your goal is to lose," I say. "So, what have you?"

"Pair of fives. Hearts and clubs."

"I've a pair of twos."

"I'll accept my winnings," Ava says, and reshuffles the deck with her typist's precision.

I lean over the table again, close to Ava's ears, and whisper: "Regarding my agenda... I'm not going to kiss you first. I'm not going to do _anything_ first. I'll hold back until I'm soaking wet and trembling because we both know we want, and I am going to _break_ you until you _take_ it from me."

Ava takes a few seconds to close her eyes and sit still. I take a deep breath of somebody else's cigar smoke, and play with the condensation left by cold drinks on the table. Perhaps it's mean to tease her like this, but I've never been a dignified woman.

"Next round?" I say, flashing a smile.

"In. Give me a real secret, not just an idea."

"Of course. Will you match me?"

"Yes. But, my secrets are somewhat esoteric, and I'd hate to leave you unsatisfied."

"I'll take my chances."

Ava looks at her hand and says, "I suppose no amount of threat could make you fold."

"I said I'll take my chances. Show me."

Ava traces a smile across her mouth with her pointer fingers — a compensation for her rigid facial design. "Pair of queens, and a pair of fives."

I sigh in mock rue. "And you wanted — what did you say, a 'real' secret? Something tangible, and not abstract?"

Ava nods, so I look around briefly at the other tables; we're hidden by music and sequestered conversation, and only the dancefloor is well-lit. I slide my underwear off under my dress and hand them to Ava. "The answer to your earlier question is no. These are yours."

Ava hesitates, then folds the garment into the internal pocket of her jacket. I smile deliberately and finish off my second glass of wine.

"This game seems to have been unlucky for you," Ava says.

"Not unexpectedly."

There's a lull in our conversation as I look down to the table and sit in the warmth of my blush.

"Shall we dance, now?" Ava says. "Or must I win that, too?"

"Lead me," I say, so Ava holds my hand to pull me out of the booth, and I grab her shoulder back to let her know I need the support. I have trouble standing, even disregarding my physical frailty and intoxication — but maybe the intoxication is just her. Maybe the intoxication is the lighting playing through her hair to drape itself over me — how everything around us spins into a touch between her hand on my hip, my hand on the small of her back, and the distance between our mouths.

"I'm not terribly adept at dancing," Ava muses.

"So suppose we're the only dancers in the world," I say, whisper, and it's the honest truth — that this dance could only happen between our imperfect bodies. I lean into her, close enough to hear the motors in her legs and chest hum up through metal to her neck; I guide her through every misstep, feel the static gathering on her like sweat.

"Is this better because we sat in anticipation?" Ava says.

"'Twas always exactly what I wanted," I say. "And perhaps my teasing got the better of me."

"I'm happy," Ava says, and steps on my foot again.

"Shh. You're doing fine," I breathe, when she hesitates in apology. "Spin me."

My hair sticks to my forehead when I twirl, wet from the breath of the place, mixed together in tobacco and liquor. I want to scream out to every other dancer (each pair a man and a woman) that we are here, and that we are in love; and so the scream becomes the dance and the dance becomes making love and the love becomes silence and Ava's hand guides me into another twirl; catches me back to safety.

"You're out of breath," Ava says.

"I know."

"Do we continue?"

"With your consent, we go up to the balcony."

"It seems dark. Hardly anyone is there."

"That's the point."

Ava hesitates. "I understand. This is a risk."

"Are you in?"

"I want this, too," Ava says. "Yes."

"Then come on," I say, leading Ava to a staircase roped off with a 'no guests beyond this point' sign we promptly ignore; Ava helps me up, two feet to a step. The balcony is populated only by dust and disused furniture and I turn to Ava breathlessly.

"Last chance to fold," I say.

"Kiss me," Ava says, and so I do.

Ava pushes my back against the wall, towers over me. Traces her hand over my jaw, tilting me upwards. "When you said this was a game of cat and mouse, which one did you think you were?"

I move to answer, but Ava sets her leg between mine and I cut myself off with my own gasp.

"What was it you said you were going to do to me?"

"I-I said — fuck—"

"You said you were going to break me, is that right?"

I nod. My jaw trembles.

Ava grinds into me again and says, "So break me."

I push her back against the opposite wall and I kiss harder, biting the plastic of her lips until her face is a mess of my spit. Ava's hands clench into my hair.

"Your lipstick is going to stain my collar," Ava says.

"Is that a problem?"

"It can hardly be explained away."

"I'm so far past that," I breathe. "I'm practically dripping down my thighs."

Ava kisses up the expanse of my neck to my ear and whispers, "I know. You'll just have to anticipate me doing something about it."

"Oh, _fuck_ ," I moan, unexpectedly, and Ava has to pause to regain control of herself, too. "Fuck, I'll be quiet."

"No, you won't. You were so bold earlier, but now you're falling apart," Ava whispers, and she's being self-satisfied again, in the way she does when she's proved herself more human that she thought she was capable of.

"So what? You're just going to — _watch_ me turn into a mess, and –"

"You already are," Ava says, and grinds into me to make me prove it; I forget to use my legs and fall against Ava's frame.

"I can't hold you up much longer. I need to sit you down," Ava says, and I nod, panting.

"Give me your jacket," I tell Ava. "I'm not leaving a mess behind."

"Necessarily," Ava says, and she lays her coat across the seat of a chair before she pushes me into it and waits, watching me impatiently touch myself through the fabric of my dress. "Shall anything else come off?"

"Whatever you will," I stutter between breaths. "Depending on your interest in — plausible excuses."

"Then watch me," Ava says, and slips the tie from her shirt collar. Music pulses up through the floorboards, and I'm not sure if this is still part of the dance. The distinction stops mattering when Ava undoes the first button and stretches her arms above her head, a motion that untucks her white shirt from her belt and reveals a flash of lace. A second button. Her eye contact is deadly, pins me to the chair.

"Keep touching yourself. Until you come, if you need to. It doesn't matter to me, I can make you come again," Ava says, and that nearly finishes me off; I strain and curl into the side of the chair and still can't take myself away from her fucking eyes.

"Are you holding back for me? Then keep watching," Ava says.

"I am. I am."

When Ava pops the fourth button I know she isn't wearing a bra, and her shirt falls open to the navel. Her chest is bare and metal, and she cups her hands over the swell in her chassis that simulates the chaste curves of a bust and a ribcage.

"Don't close your eyes. Keep watching."

"I'm trying. I just. I — I'm trying to —"

"I know. You're doing so well. I'm enjoying how overwhelmed you are," Ava says, and undoes the last two buttons, throwing her shirt onto the table as she walks to me and leans in. "Can I make love to you?"

"You are," I stutter. "Go as far as you can."

In response, Ava straddles me and pulls me by the hair into another kiss; she tastes like my lipstick and warm metal. I push my hand into her pants.

"Careful not to be pinched," Ava says.

I squeeze her in defiance and then writhe up into her. She forgets what to do with her hands.

"Distracted?" I say.

In response Ava takes the hem of my dress and looks at me. I nod vigorously in response, and she just traces up the outside of my thigh.

"What are you waiting for," I stammer.

"Ask for it."

"I... I want you to keep going."

"To do what?"

"Ava!"

"You'll get only what you ask for," Ava says, pinching my thigh between her fingers for emphasis.

I take a shuddering breath. "Fuck me."

"Then stand up. I want you on my lap," Ava says, and when she lifts me out of the chair my legs don't support me; I catch myself against the table before Ava pulls me by my hips onto herself.

"Suck," Ava says, bringing her hand to my mouth. I do, and she dances that hand up the inside of my thigh, each step quickening my breath until she curls into me.

"Ava, _fuck_ –"

"Shhh," Ava says. "Just feel."

She grabs my breast and traces around my nipple; I feel myself becoming the atmosphere and the smoke and I know that I will suffocate in her kiss — that we will drown in each other, that everything we do to each other will be on purpose, and that we will love it.

"Ava, I'm — I'm gonna come from this," I gasp.

"I know," Ava says.

I watch how Ava pulls my dress up past my waist, how the hair between my legs is soaked flat and how Ava makes long, broad strokes across my clit and then fucks me again with her fingers. I stop being able to hold our mouths together, so Ava grabs my hair and does it herself. There are no words, just pressure and inevitability and I feel myself start to scream and feel Ava catch my voice in her mouth and everything falls apart, I drown and Ava is there, and I am alive on every breath and break in every moan and Ava is always there; how I fall into her, turn to water and drip through her fingers.

* * *

When I open my eyes, Ava brushes the hair out of my face and asks how I'm doing.

"I'm a mess," I say. "That was quite irresponsible of us."

"Very."

"How are you?"

"I have no regrets."

"Likewise." I lean in to touch our foreheads together, and smile. "How did you... how did you feel?"

"I'm still not sure if what I feel is arousal. It's just... overwhelming intensity. When I watch you come it always feels like I'm right there with you, but I'm never sure."

"You are. I know you are."

When Ava helps me back down the stairs, I feel everything in my bad hip. Another, younger me might frame this as the price for irresponsibility (and therefore a regret), but Ava and I have existed in uncooperative bodies for too long to fret about it; and, we've existed in public for far too long to fall back into trepidation. So when a bartender comes to admonish our trespassing, Ava simply says, "My girlfriend was looking for a lavatory. Our apologies."

In the lavatory, we look at ourselves in the mirror; Ava straightens her tie and then reverts it to being messy and crooked. Combs her hair back over to one side of her head. We choose not to smooth over the edges and kiss again, so we can see ourselves do it.

When we leave, it is into swirling snow, where I walk with a cane in one hand and Ava's in the other.


End file.
